


The Barter

by imma_redshirt



Series: Héctor and Miguel Just Being Héctor and Miguel [2]
Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Dialogue Heavy, Gen, and cookies, featuring chamoyadas, just hector and miguel being hector and miguel, mid-movie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-02-24 13:44:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13214988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imma_redshirt/pseuds/imma_redshirt
Summary: On the way to Ernesto's rehearsal, Miguel spots a familiar spicy snack, and realizes he's pretty hungry. Héctor just wants to move on, but they end up trying to get one anyway.It causes a tiny problem.





	The Barter

**Author's Note:**

> Just a bunch of nonsense. I'm just trying to hit a 15,000 word count before the end of the month (tomorrow!!) so I thought I'd build a lil oneshot around some dialogue that was supposed to be in Con Pan Dulce, but didn't quite make it in. Written pretty quickly, so it might be a bit disjointed. Sorry!
> 
> Also, if I've made any mistakes with my terrible, terrible Spanish, please let me know!
> 
> EDIT: I just realized I forgot to add Dante in here and I am horrified????? Fixing as we speak.  
> Edit: Aaaand fixed. Alright folks, go about your business, nothing to see here.

They’d still had a ways to go before reaching Ernesto’s rehearsal.

Héctor knew of some side alleys and back streets that would be empty and quiet enough for them to sneak around unnoticed, but in order to get there, they had to pass through a street that was _packed_ with skeletons. The street was wide, with storefronts and stalls along the tall buildings, and it was filled from one side to the other with chatting, wandering citizens of the Land of the Dead.

“Just keep your face down,” Héctor had hissed as they walked into the throng of cheerful deceased families, Dante trotting along happily at their side. Annoyed at being ordered around, but terrified of being caught, Miguel hunched his shoulders and bowed his head just a bit, eyes on the crowds ahead. 

Someone called out to the crowd about t-shirts for sale, and someone else was going up to potential customers with decorative, hand made prints. Miguel and Héctor were squeezing through a group of skeletons watching a woman paint magenta skulls on a dark wall, when Miguel heard a familiar sound. He whipped his head up. 

It didn’t take long to pinpoint the _razz, razz,_ the sound of a blade against ice. Up ahead, a line of people started at a wooden stall and ended at the corner of a nearby building. The stall, painted yellow and orange, with a pile of mangos in baskets at its side, was headed by a tall woman standing in front of a large, misshapen, block of ice.

And lined along the stall’s counter, bright and red with yellow tops, were a dozen bottles of chamoy.

“Chamoyadas!” Miguel gasped, and stopped in his tracks.

Héctor paused, looking down at him, then looked up at the stall ahead. He perked up. “Hey, I didn’t know they setting one of those up here! Ay, what I wouldn’t give for a nice chamoyada.”

“Me too!” Miguel said, and grabbed Héctor’s hand. “Come on, Héctor!”

“Hey, hey! What are you doing?” With a pop, Héctor disconnected his hand from the rest of his arm, and Miguel was left holding a hand that tapped impatiently at his fingers. “We don’t have time for this!”

“But,” Miguel said, tossing Héctor’s hand back at him, and was immediately interrupted by a low grumbling noise. He grimaced and looked up at Héctor.

Héctor looked panicked. “What was that?”

“My _stomach!_ ”

“Wha--you’re hungry _right now?_ We’re trying to get to de la Cruz!”

“I _know,_ ” Miguel said, glaring. At that moment, his stomach groaned again, and he looked at Héctor with the most pained look a kid could muster. “Please, Héctor? I haven’t eaten since breakfast!”

“Ay,” Héctor groaned, and dragged a hand down his face. “Pues--”

“Oh no,” Miguel gasped, and flattened his hand against his forehead, swaying in place, “I-I think I feel _faint--_ ”

“Al _right_ , alright! Cut the melodrama, chamaco, we’ll get something to eat!”

Miguel grinned, somehow miraculously fine again, and followed a grumbling Héctor to the stall. Nearby, a group of skeletons were setting up a set of four torritos, with a couple of them sticking a dozen more fireworks onto the paper bulls. With the help of friends, one skeleton was already setting one on his shoulders. 

At the stall, the line had shortened to five skeletons, and the first customer was chatting amiably with the vendor, who was scooping diced melon into a bright orange cup. Dante was already seated by a pile of mangos that towered over his head, slobbering away at little chunks of fruit the vendor was tossing to him with a smile.

“Ok,” Héctor said. “Let’s see, what have you got to trade?”

“Trade?” Miguel frowned. “You mean pay? I don’t have any money.”

“No, no, not pay,” Héctor said. “We don’t use money here, niño, we trade things. We _barter._ Usually what our families leave for us on Dia de Muertos, pero other things, too.”

“Welll, ok then, what do you have?”

“What do _I_ have? First of all, _you’re_ the one who wants to eat. Y _segundo_ \--look at me, do I look like I have anything to trade?”

Héctor gestured wildly at himself, from his tattered hat to his threadbare trousers, and Miguel tsked. 

“You said you were hungry too! And how about your hat?”

“Ah _no_ , that stays with me,” Héctor said, and gripped the brim as if he expected Miguel to reach up and snatch it off.

Miguel frowned again, and began to pat himself down for anything that he could trade. He wasn’t getting rid of his hoodie, that was for sure--maybe his socks? But who would want _socks_? And if he got rid of his shoes, his entire family would kill him. What else was there to trade? He was _really_ hungry--

Suddenly, he felt something in his back pocket, and with a triumphant laugh, he pulled out the oatmeal breakfast bar Abuelita had forcefully given him that very morning.

“We’ll trade this!” He said, and held it up for Héctor to see.

Héctor tilted his head to read the crinkly wrapper, eyes narrowed. “Peanut butter and honey and oatmeal and nuts and--wait, wait, what is this?”

“Breakfast bar,” Miguel said, shrugging.

“ _Breakfast bar?_ ” Héctor threw his hands up. “And you’ve had it this whole time? Why don’t you eat _that?_ ”

“ _Blegh_ , I don’t _like_ breakfast bars. Abuelita only gives it to me to eat later in the day, but it’s so dry.”

“I can’t believe this,” Héctor said, and looked at Miguel as if the hidden food thing had been the greatest insult of the century. “Chiflado. You’ve had food with you this whole time, and you were going to make me give up my _hat--_ ”

“You think they’ll take it?” Miguel interrupted, as the line shortened to four skeletons ahead of them. The first customer was walking away, munching gleefully on a mouthful of mango and chamoy. Miguel stared openly at the overfilled cup in the skeleton’s hands, and his stomach grumbled. 

“No,” Héctor said. “No one’s going to want to trade with that.”

“You don’t know, maybe they like breakfast bars!”

“No, no, believe me, no one is going to want a breakfast--”

“Dios mio! Is that a breakfast bar?”

Miguel and Héctor looked in unison at a skeleton who had appeared quite suddenly at their side. The woman had one hand over her mouth, and was staring in awe at the blue rectangle in Miguel’s outstretched hand. 

“An _oatmeal_ breakfast bar?”

Miguel exchanged a quick look with Héctor, then slowly faced the stranger. “Um, yes?”

“With honey?”

Miguel began to grin. “With honey _and_ peanut butter!”

“Oh, Dios,” the woman placed a skeletal hand over her ribcage. “I haven’t had one in years! Mi familia stopped putting them on the ofrenda! They’re trying to give me bars with _chia seeds._ ” She shuddered. “Don’t get me wrong, I love them for trying, pero… oatmeal bars were my _life_.”

“Well,” Miguel said, before Héctor could step in, “I was just going to throw it away. Do you… wanna trade?”

And so Miguel conducted his first barter in the Land of the Dead while Héctor watched on, partly impressed, partly incredulous, and--oddly enough--very proud when the kid ended up with a small paper box filled with sugary hojarascas .

“Ok,” Miguel said, stepping back into line, as the woman left to unwrap her prize. “How about _these?_ ”

“Much better,” Héctor said. “Everyone likes those things.”

“I know,” Miguel said. He’d actually considered just eating the crumbly cookies, but after successfully trading with the grateful skeleton, he was determined to conduct another trade for a cup of mango and chamoy. 

“Are you sure you don’t just want to eat those?” Héctor said. 

“No, I’m sure.”

Ahead of them, the vendor was pouring extra powdered chili over a mound of mango smothered in red, dripping sauce. Hector grimaced. “You know, you eat too much of that stuff, you’ll end up with an ulcer, chamaco.”

Miguel rolled his eyes. Why was it that every adult had to say that? “I won’t!”

“Ah, si, you _will--_ ”

“I’m surprised you even know what an ulcer _is!_ ”

Héctor had just received the insult of the century for the second time that night. He made an exaggerated noise of the greatest offense. “What? You don’t think we had ulcers ninety years ago?”

“It’s not that, it’s just--you’re a skeleton!”

“ _And?_ I was alive once, you know!”

“Yeah, but--”

“Perdon, senor, I’m here on official business-perdon, perdon, let me through--”

At once, Miguel and Héctor whipped around to watch a guard in the official uniform of the Marigold Grand Central Station seperate from a crowd near the street and stride up to the chamoyada vendor.

Héctor cursed. He and Miguel crouched low, until the line of customers hid them from view. 

Miguel clutched the box of cookies to his chest and bit back a groan. No no, they couldn’t find him now, he wasn’t even close to getting Ernesto’s blessing yet!

“Señora Valdez,” the guard said, stepping behind the stall. He was running his narrowed eyes over the crowd. “We’ve been looking for a living boy. Short, about 12, wearing a red sweater. You haven’t seen one, have you?”

The vendor, who was scraping away at the ice block, frowned. “A _living_ boy? Lo siento, Garcia, pero I haven’t seen one of those in ages.” She looked at her current customer. “Have you, señor?” 

As the man shook his head, Miguel began to feel himself shake. The guard was going to see him. They were going to take him back to his family, without Ernesto’s blessing, without a future of music! If he and Héctor could just run across the street without the guard noticing, they could blend in with the crowd gathering around the group of skeletons with toritos on their shoulders, and escape down the street. But if they moved out of line, the guard was going to see them for sure!

“You know,” the guard was saying as Miguel’s anxiety continued to skyrocket. “I could go for a chamoyada.”

“Then pay up, Garcia, I don’t give these out for free.”

“Aw, Valdez…”

Ok, ok, Miguel thought, maybe if they ran _really_ fast. Biting his lip, he began to get into his Fast Running Stance, ready to bolt, when Héctor grabbed his shoulder and pulled him to the side.

“ _Alla_ , córrele!” Héctor hissed. He turned Miguel around until, just ahead of them, Miguel saw it--a door built into the side of the building, in a short alley that ended in a brick wall, just around the corner from the stall. The vendor’s stall was tall enough to hide them as they shuffled to the door, crouched low, eyes darting from the door to the guard, who was now leaning against the stall, sweeping his gaze up to stare at the end of the line.

Héctor and Miguel slipped by the corner just in time. Holding his breath, Miguel watched as Héctor quickly tested the doorknob. The door opened easily, swinging forward just enough for a twelve-year-old boy and a skeleton to squeeze in.

It was dark inside, the only light coming in through the tiny, dust covered window from the streets outside, and just large enough to hold a round table for six, three large crates lined against the wall, and a stack of wire frame chairs in the corner. With a sigh of relief, Miguel collapsed against one of the crates, while Héctor carefully closed the door.

“Dios mio,” Héctor breathed, and leaned against the far wall, away from the window. “That was close. Hey, you ok, ‘maco?”

Miguel looked up to see Héctor watching him with a frown, and the same look his Mama always gave him when she thought he was unwell. Miguel realized he was clutching at his chest and breathing heavily. He must’ve been more panicky than he’d thought.

“Fine,” he breathed, and slid down to sit on the floor, where he hugged his knees to his chest. He’d almost been caught. 

“You don’t look fine,” Héctor said, and went to plop down next to the living kid. “We’re ok in here for now, ok? Looks like a storage room she doesn’t use that often. We’ll be fine until este tonto goes away.”

Carefully, Héctor plucked his head off his shoulders with one hand and lifted it until he could just see over the window sill. The guard was still leaning against the stall, chatting up the vendor, who was deftly slicing away the skin of a mango with a blade as long as her forearm.

With a frustrated sigh, Héctor dropped his skull into place and nudged Miguel with his elbow. The living boy looked up at him, frowning.

“You did pretty good out there with that trade,” Héctor said, smiling proudly, and Miguel felt a little bit of his confidence return. He _had_ done a pretty good job.

“Not bad, huh?” He said, then shrugged. “But I didn’t get to barter for the chamoyada.”

Héctor tsked. “Eh, with skills like that? You would have gotten it, no problema. Hey, might even had gotten two.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Miguel said. He set the box on his lap. The white paper cube was now dented, the folded top opening just a bit, but no cookies had fallen out. He flicked the top open and grabbed a little round cookie, gently as to not let the fragile sweet crumble in his fingers. “Guess I might as well eat these. Want some?”

Héctor brightened and immediately snatched a couple. Miguel popped one into his mouth and closed his eyes in bliss as the buttery, sugary goodness practically _melted_ into non existence.

As he picked out another one, he watched noticed Héctor gingerly biting each cookie in half and chewing, rather than eating them all in one go. He was smiling. 

Swallowing, Miguel frowned at the skeleton, trying to work out something that had been puzzling him.

“Where does it go?” He finally asked.

Héctor dusted off a piece of the cookie that had crumbled onto his vest and frowned. “Where does what go?” 

“The food.”

“Eh?”

“The food you eat! Where does it, you know…” Miguel gave a vague wave of his hand near his stomach. “Go?”

Héctor blinked at him, then glanced at his own empty ribcage, then glared again at the living boy. He’d apparently just suffered a massive insult for the third time that night. “Hey, mira, if there’s one thing you need to know here, it’s you don’t ask those types of questions.”

“What types of questions?”

“About where food goes and why do we breathe and why do we feel pain and all of that! Those types of--of ridiculous questions,” Héctor said, annoyed, and waved his hand in frustration as if waving the questions away from his face. 

“Why not?”

“I don’t know, it’s not polite! It just,” Héctor paused, then gave a frustrated huff. “It’s just rude.”

“Oh,” Miguel said. “Sorry.”

“Ah, don’t worry about it. I wish I had an answer for you, niño, pero it’s just not something a lot of people _know_ the answer to. You just take life here for what it is, _as_ it is, ya know?”

“Well, _someone_ has to know,” Miguel said. 

“Well that’s not me,” Héctor said with finality. He waved his fingers at the almost empty box. “Now, be quiet and let me eat my galletas in peace.”

“Fine,” Miguel said, but he wasn’t done yet. He watched Héctor bite into another cookie. He ate another one as well, dusting his sugar coated fingers on his jeans, still watching Héctor chew, then blurted out, “Can you even taste them?”

Héctor threw his hands in the air. “Otra vez, este niño! Look, what did I _just say--_ ”

“Valdez, do you have some alebrijes stuck in here or something?”

Héctor’s jaw clicked shut. Miguel, who had been on the verge of laughing at the skeleton’s frustrated voice, gasped and threw a hand over his mouth. 

Overhead, through the window, an inquisitive skull peeked in. The dust coating the colored glass must have made it difficult to see, though, because the guard made a frustrated noise and tried wiping at it with his bony hand.

“Alebrijes?” The vendor asked, voice close. “No, only some spare chairs and a table. Por que?”

“There’s a lot of hissing coming from in there,” the guard said, and his shadow moved to the left, away from the window, and towards the door.

Miguel cursed.

“Hey,” Héctor hissed, “Watch your language!”

“I hear it too!” The vendor said, just as Miguel hissed in return, “ _Callate_ , Héctor!”

“Callate _tu_ \--”

“It’s voices,” came the guard’s own voice from the door.

The doorknob turned.

Miguel felt sick. He jumped to his feet, breath too quick, heart beating too fast, and just as the door swung open, Héctor grabbed his shoulder without a word and shoved him into a narrow space between two crates.

“Oye!” The guard said, as Miguel struggled to keep his mouth shut, stuck in the dark, too-little space he’d been unceremoniously shoved into. He couldn’t see the guard, but he could see Héctor leaning too-casually against one of the crates. “Héctor? What are you doing in here?”

“Hola, Jorge,” Héctor said, and wiggled his fingers at the guard in greeting. “Nothing much, just… relaxing, you know, as you do.”

“Ah-hah,” the guard said, and a shadow fell across the table in the middle of the room. “You’re not hiding any disguises in here, are you?”

“What, _me?_ ” Héctor snorted. “No, no, why would I hide _disguises?_ Amigo, I’m just killing time till sunrise--”

“Whatever you’re doing, you’re not supposed to be here,” the guard said, and Miguel saw one large skeletal hand close around Héctor’s shoulder. “Come on, Héctor, out of here, unless you’d like another trip to the station.”

“I would not like that,” Héctor said, and Miguel imagined he could hear a bit of nervousness creeping into his voice. “Wait, Jorge, just a minute--”

“Come on, I don’t want to get rough, Héctor--”

Miguel was close to hyperventilating. What if they locked him in there? Even he couldn’t fit through the window, and Héctor wouldn’t be allowed anywhere near the stall after this! He began to siddle his way out of the narrow space, ready to bolt past the guard and into the street. He had to make it. He _had to_ \--

At that moment, a few things happened all at once.

Héctor was barely holding his ground, bare feet sliding along the floor as the increasingly frustrated guard pulled him along. Just as the guard reached the door, he was startled when Miguel slipped out from behind the crate and fell on the floor. But before he could react any further, the world lit up in a thousand flashes of light.

“ _Hijole!_ ” The guard cried, and dove into the room with his arms over his head. Fast popping noises sounded from the street, and fireworks zipped into the alleyway like shooting stars on a sugar high. The walls lit up in light, and the air was filled with cheers and yells.

“ _Vamos!_ ” Héctor yelled, and lifted Miguel to his feet. 

Running around the cowering guard, Miguel was pulled into the alley, where he saw the last of the torrito carriers sprinting down the street. A firecracker spitting red sparks flew his way, and he ducked just in time, box of cookies falling to his feet, very much forgotten.

“Come on!” Héctor yelled, and pulled a dazed Miguel up and onto his back, running into the street just as the final torrito was carried past. Miguel clung as tightly as he could as he heard the guard yelling behind them, but his vision was blinded by streaks of yellow and orange and red, and he knew if he didn’t have his hoodie, he’d have felt the burn of the sparks on his skin. 

Héctor was whooping and laughing, his voice almost lost in the cheers rising around them, and Miguel joined in without a second thought, the fear and excitement mingling into a sudden bout of energy. He could hear the high pitched bark of a confused but happy Dante, who was sprinting by them at Hector's feet. People were running alongside them, some yelping, other laughing. Miguel turned his face from the sparks, laughing almost hysterically as he was carried down the street, bathed in lights and colors and hidden from the guards that lined the sidewalks. Before the long, Héctor veered to the right and into an empty alley, panting and laughing, before letting Miguel drop to land on his feet.

“You alright, Miguelito?” Héctor said, and began to check the living boy over. “Did you get burned?”

“I’m _fine,_ ” Miguel laughed, and dusted his shoulders off. How could he not be fine? They were on their way to de la Cruz, and Miguel’s future doing what he loved--music. “Come on! You said you knew the way, didn’t you?”

“Now, would I lie about something like that?” Héctor said, winking once, and heading down the alley with a light step despite his limp. Miguel grinned, adjusted his hoodie, rubbed Dante's ears, and followed, leaving the worry of being caught behind him.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, thanks for reading!


End file.
